


Warmth

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Fluff, Romance, Short, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-03
Updated: 2008-04-03
Packaged: 2018-12-27 01:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12070845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: A schmoopy post-season 5 fic about a late night phone conversation between Brian and Justin.





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes: Only thing offensive is a little swearing. It's my first fic, so be nice! :) Hope you like it.  


* * *

Brian can’t say it to Justin. Not just because of the obvious, gut-wrenching loss of dignity in doing so, but because it’s impossible to say. Impossible to think. Brian’s a master – _the_ master – at creating catchy slogans, encapsulating all that’s meaningful, that’s valuable, into one snapshot screen, but this – this cannot be expressed, only felt. He grapples for words with his brain, as if they’re leverage, but finds only space and air – _everything_ , everything and always.

“Are you still awake?” It’s Justin’s voice, drifting down the line that he’d forgotten was even there. Brian blinks. Maybe he _had_ been sleeping.

“I’m here.” 

A smile. Invisible but there – Brian _knows_ that Justin is smiling. Because the words are enough for Justin, at least for now – but not for Brian. He’s not there. Brian’s in Pittsburgh, Justin in New York, and it seems almost as if the world is too small for the both of them and it’s trying to squeeze one of them out, or at least all the baggage and – _everything_ – that floats between them. It’s too much for the poor atmosphere to take.

“Whenever I’m with a trick I imagine it’s you,” Brian blurts out, not entirely sure where the words came from but somehow glad they’ve escaped him. He hears Justin laugh, softly, and now Brian’s smiling too.

“You’re the only person in the whole world who could make that sound romantic,” comes Justin’s voice between the faint laughter. 

“Ridiculously romantic?”

Again, Brian doesn’t know why he said it. Justin doesn’t remember anyway, and besides, it was five years ago. Even if he _did_ remember then, he probably would have forgotten it by now. Nonetheless it’s frustrating as hell, and somehow widens the space between them. Until – 

“Why does that sound familiar?”

Brian’s chest leaps and drops at the same time. He stops breathing but doesn’t even notice.

“Is it from a movie or something?”

Breathing resumes. So he still doesn’t remember. Brian mentally berates himself for believing in miracles, even if just for a second.

“No, it’s not in any movie.” Brian pauses. “I said it on your prom night.”

_Stop speaking, you fucking idiot_ , he wills himself.  He supposes the little twat’s figured him out - call up at two in the morning and he’ll be too tired to properly control his speech. But maybe Justin regrets it now. Maybe now he’ll stop calling late at night. The thought makes Brian surprisingly uneasy.

“I’m sorry,” Justin breathes out, still quiet but no longer soft. His voice sounds heavy and it weighs Brian down.

“What for?”“For leaving. Running away to New York. Creating more memories we can’t share.” 

The sentimentality of the words makes Brian bristle for a moment, but he shrugs it off. The sentiment is nothing compared to the anguish, and that refuses to be shaken. 

So he says all he _can_ say, all he’s ever known: “Don’t be sorry. Sorry is bullshit.”

Justin doesn’t miss a beat. “No apologies, no regrets.”

Brian can’t help but grin a bit. How his little protégé has learned.

“Only, _that’s_ bullshit, Brian. It’s an excuse, and you hate excuses. And… it’s not true. You regret letting me leave.”

Justin’s voice is a wobbly balance of self-assurance, grumpiness and overflowing emotion, and Brian closes his eyes, carefully and purposefully putting it down to too much art, not enough sleep.

“Sunshine, these late night conversations aren’t good for you. How can you be a little ray of light without a good night’s rest?”

Justin snorts. “’Cause we always did _so_ much sleeping at the loft.”

Sarcasm. Three guesses where he learnt _that_ from.

“Fuck this, Brian. Tell me to come home. I want to come home.” Bordering on whiny now. Brian hates it when he gets whiny, ‘cause it’s so damn annoying, but he kind of secretly loves it too – it reminds him of an eager-to-please, naive seventeen year old Justin; a Justin left behind. 

“I’m never going to tell you to come home. You know that. To come back to the ‘Burgh now would be to give up – and besides, you’re in fucking _New York City_ for Christ’s sake! It’s me who should be all self-pitying.” Brian lights a cigarette, and savours for a moment the flicker of light in the dark, dark room. It’s cold – sterile – and he sucks on the cigarette for warmth.

Justin sighs. “I knew you were going to say that.” Rustling sheets crackle down the line, painting a picture of him moving over in bed – from his back to his stomach, from right side to left side; Brian doesn’t know. He’s not there. 

“You know, I was thinking the other day… as I was sketching you, actually. I was drawing your dick” - they both laugh – “and I thought, I’m kind of glad not to have it up my ass for a change.”

Brian is affronted, predictably. “Why the fuck would you be glad of _that_?”

“Because that’s how it all started. That’s the foundation of our relationship. And… I don’t think it’s a very good foundation.”

Brian is silent. Relationship talk. He predicts many more cigarettes will be needed… maybe some drugs too.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s important,” Justin rambles on, as he accepts that nothing’s coming from the other end. “But there are more important things. And being away from you… it makes me remember parts of you that I like maybe even more than your dick.”

“And what parts would that be?” Brian’s tone is condescending, but he’s actually genuinely interested, and he knows that Justin knows it.

“Your heart,” Justin replies, a split second before he bursts into giggles. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be a songwriter than an artist? You could write some god-awful ballads,” Brian scoffs. “Sell them for a million bucks to Celine Dion. Or Mariah Carey.”

“Oh, shut up, you asshole. I know you found ‘My Heart Will Go On’ just as touching as the rest of us at the end of Titanic. But, just to clarify, it’s not only your heart. It’s… the look of concentration on your face when you’re working on a big account. The way that you hold Gus in your arms. The way you care, despite yourself.”

Brian smiles. The words still sound like a shitty song, but that’s okay. It’s late, and he’s tired, and he can pretend not to remember in the morning. 

“I like your sunshine smile,” he says, barely a whisper. “Now go to sleep.”

Justin makes a content little humming sound, travelling warmth down the phone line, and they both lie, apart and together.


End file.
